Endurance by Shine

   
   "Endurance by Shine"
   
   As a wayfaring punk, though I used the invention of the wheel, having been from the Atlantic to the Pacific by the time I was eighteen, and on my own during most solo journeys, hitting the asphalt realm at the prodigious age of sixteen--no fear, talking to truckers and cops, but always urinating and defecating in the bushes or behind dilapidated structures, due to great fear--this anxiety would be greatly relieved if they put those sparkly blue or pink mints in all toilets.
   But during my 29th year, again--death was upon me.  Not just from the start, incubation for a protracted period, inability to speak properly until the age of five, a speech pathologist of the angelic kind giving me the gift of vociferousness; moreover, tubes shoved up my urethra, night terrors, you name it.  Then, in your prime, bleeding to death, the emergency room nurses cackling as I would mercurially scramble to the restroom, hooked up to so many incoming fluids, being told I had less than half the blood in my body, and a naughty, unethical night-shift nurse telling me that I should simply give up.  Yup, I should not fight, and just let myself perish.  I didn't.
   Furthermore, attorneys driving me to attempt suicide, and my biological matriarch contemplating driving off a cliff because a non-blood relative bullied her with relentless rebellion of the Satanic kind; plus, getting her hooked on benzos. These people wrapped up in mammon, divided, bravado-fueled, pornography-hiding hoodlums--secret chambers proving their shame of it, wrapped up in a warped world, where giving up seems the best option--unless of course it's their bacon, or their children's.  
   I know suffering.  Chastity and poverty are easy--I'm talking disease and disorders; plus, infiltration from secret sources.  They speak tough, but have never put on the pads and taken a hit, while I've been set on fire, lacerated and received numerous stitches, multiple surgeries, yet the others are all lost in the game of gaudiness, lacking the love and mercy of the mystical and uncanny, thinking they forged themselves, and life is nothing but a flux of atoms, yet I've seen the face of death.  My biological patriarch saw it as well, before fighting with shine until his time.    
    If you want to kill an ugly or asymmetrical person--get sick yourself.  See if you'll try to hold on, like you do with your pride.  Loss that arrives through the entrance of electric love into any of your perforations; next, you'll try to hold on, because you intrinsically know:  "You've not been honest, sincere, played football, but merely mumble the mumbo jumbo--and there's nothing like losing a pint of blood to get a good night of sleep, laying down and innocently throwing Staubach's HAIL MARY into a Virgin's nurturing ear."   But you won't know that until you are on your deathbed or driven psychotic; then, we'll see how you talk, even if your tool gets shot off.  My money says that you will try to hold on, and I don't even have any.